Fallen
by Eledhariel
Summary: The reflections of an Elf captured by Morgoth. The horror and angst of becoming an orc, told from an unconventional point of view. The plot-bunny for this story grew out of a discussion I followed on Silmfics. Thanks to all who contributed to that disc


**Fallen**

I no longer remember the beauty of the stars.  All I see now is bright, burning light.  Light.  No, I cannot bear it.  Dark is where I am now.  Dark is where I will stay.

There is no beauty in my world.  Indeed, the concept of beauty was one I clung to the longest.  The belief that it would last, unchanged, unmarred by the horrors and evils around me sustained my fëa long after I myself had changed.  I cannot recall the exact moment when I realized how wrong I was, when all hope was shattered within me, but he knew.  He know the instant his tortures and maiming of my hroa had affected my fëa to the point where it would prefer to be bodiless.  

Fëa.  Hroa.  I still remember these words.  He would throw them in my face repeatedly, reminding me that my fëa belonged to him alone.  The hroa would wither, but I was forever bound to him.  This is what he told me as he forced himself upon me the first time.  As he thrust himself upon me before his seat, in full view of the demons and his orcs, I felt a terrible burning, a fire inside me and my fëa fleeing from it.  But he called me back, saying that because I had never been bedded before him, I was bound to him, alive or dead.  I contemplated this, stopping my fëa from flowing out of my body.  There was no escape.  The faint summons I heard as I hovered whispered of judgement.  To be judged by and bound to the Dark Lord himself for all time was more than I could bear, my fëa would be open, exposed to him.  Alive, I could hide it within my flesh, feeble as it was.  I re-entered my hroa, and instantly felt the fire of where he was inside me, and as I writhed in pain, the fire spread until my whole body was burning from the inside.  I remember hearing someone screaming; the sound emanated from my throat, for hours on end, even after he had finished with me.  He sat back on his throne after that, and watched, malice in his eyes, as each and every last orc and demon in the place ravaged me.  I heard the summons each time I was taken, weaker and weaker it became;  I rejected it each time, fearing the hold he would have over my houseless fëa, until it came no more.  He had given up trying to kill me that way.  All the time I was struck, burned with the Balrogs' whips of flame, and beaten to the very edge of death, but I did not give in.  Senseless, I was dragged back to a cell and began a new stage of hateful and meaningless existence as one of the Dark Lord's most valuable slaves.  For without me, he would not be able to change them all so quickly.

I hate him for it, I hate them all.  Now, my fëa is completely trapped within my body, burning constantly as a reminder of his hold over me.  My body has also been consumed, blistered from his fire, and blackened from within.  That was how my beauty was destroyed, and so I have remained since that day.  He sends the new ones to me, to break them as he broke me.  They have endured his tortures and have begun the slow process he uses to change them.  Many remember and long for their old lives; they are maimed and disfigured, but still beautiful inside and the stars shine in their faces. They look upon me in disgust, a creature of the dark, hideous and cruel, and shudder when I touch them.  But they cannot escape, no, for they are chained to the floor and forced to mate with me.  At first I did not do this willingly, and lashes from the Balrogs' whips were my punishment.  Now, I barely look at them as they struggle.  Some die as they enter me, their fëar winging away to Lord Melkor's hold; others resist, and bond with me and my Master, the light in their faces burning away before my eyes.  I feel nothing for them, only satisfaction that others can suffer as I do.

To many of these hapless elves, I bore children, but I cared nothing for them.  It is true that the first time I gave birth some feeling of love stirred in me knowing that this was my child, but I abhorred it all the same, for that child was conceived in fire and humiliation.  It reminded me of everything I had lost.  I never looked at the ones that came after that, knowing they were more orc-like than I had become.  Now, there are no more elves, save those the Dark Lord has working in his mines, and I am bedded by orcs, including my offspring.  Each generation has become more terrible than the last, and still I breed more.

I feel nothing now, only bitterness.  The Elves who could have saved me never did.  Rumours of others, Men and Dwarves, friends of the Elves, did not help either, and now it is too late.  

The Dark Lord approaches.  The light of the jewels in his crown assault my senses.  Those stars burn me to the core, and their beauty is a sharp reminder of a life that was stolen from me.  Stolen by those who failed to save me.  Their existence must be robbed the same way; beauty must be destroyed for them all.  It is the only way I can stop feeling like this.  

I await my lord's command.


End file.
